Epilogophilia: The Boxer
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Self defense comes in various forms.


Disclaimer:The characters are not mine and I make no profit from them.

Rated: K

**Author's Note: **Another one of the season one epilogues that first appeared in vol. 1 of the STAR for BK fund-raising fics. Thanks, as always, to the supporters.

**  
The Boxer**

epilogue by L.M.Lewis

_Kid Calico, an old prison buddy of Mark's, is an up-and-coming amateur boxer with Olympic aspirations. His father, Jack Calico, is an ex-boxer who never got his own shot at a gold medal. The judge and Mark, both fans of the pugilistic arts (though at variance over exactly who were the greatest practitioners), discover a mobster named Kane is horning in on the Kid, trying to force him to sign with him so that he can control him._

_When Hardcastle takes over as Calico's manager to keep him out of Kane's grasp, the mobster kidnaps the Kid's father and orders Calico to throw a fight. The judge and Mark track down the kidnappers, and, when that threat is removed, the Kid wins his bout and retains his amateur status._

_The episode ends with Hardcastle and Mark stepping into the ring, to test finesse against force. The freeze-frame at the end shows both men throwing nearly simultaneous punches._

00000

And the next thing he knew he was looking up at the ceiling of the gym. A moment after that he saw Hardcastle's face, obscuring the view. Mark blinked a couple of times. The guy looking down at him was frowning.

He heard somebody (_That's Jack Calico_, his brain announced with muzzy pride) say, "Must have a glass jaw."

He reached up to touch the jaw in question and tapped himself with a boxing glove—more surprise—and then spent a moment trying to bring that into focus. He thought he was putting the pieces together pretty well, when he was again interrupted.

"You okay, kiddo?" The judge was still frowning.

_You were sparring. _He wasn't sure it had quite gotten to the point where it could be called 'a spar'—he was still a little fuzzy on the details.

"Did anybody count to ten?" he asked. His voice sounded thick to him, but this at least got him a smile from Hardcastle.

"Ten? Hah. You were out for at least a minute."

The senior Calico was untying his gloves. Hardcastle's were already on the floor, proof that Mark was, indeed, missing more than a few seconds. Kid Calico returned from somewhere with a bag of ice, and gave him a rueful look, like he'd let down the home team.

The second glove was off and his hands untaped. He sat up slowly, with some help from Hardcastle, who was looking a tad guilty. Mark saw absolutely no indication that his own punch had connected.

"Glass jaw," Jack said again, with more conviction.

"Iron fist," McCormick muttered, in his own defense.

"Stupid accident," Hardcastle said, very flat and very definite. "Why the hell did you pull your punch?"

"I did?" Mark blinked again. "No I didn't," he added, sounding doubtful. That part was a complete blank.

"Yeah, you did. You pulled yours and I already had too much forward momentum. Look, kiddo, when you put on the gloves and step into the ring, you're supposed to actually try to _hit_ the other guy."

The Calicos, father and son, gave this dual nods. Mark stared at the three of them, still somewhat blankly, and then muttered, "Yeah, I _know_ that." This was all getting a little embarrassing.

Fortunately, the lecture seemed to be over. Hardcastle was offering him a hand up and he wasn't too proud to accept it. He was on his feet, swaying some, but able to walk. Chewing might be another matter for a couple of days. One tooth on the left seemed a little loose. Jack was holding the ropes apart for him. Hardcastle was already through and looked like he was standing by to break his fall if necessary.

He avoided that, salvaging what was left of his dignity. He thought maybe he preferred 'glass jaw' to the other accusation.

00000

They'd bid the Calicos good-bye, and he'd gotten out to the truck without further assistance, though under Hardcastle's watchful eye. He was glad, at that point, to just climb into the passenger's seat and close his eyes for a few minutes.

"Keep using that ice bag," the judge admonished. "Your gonna have a helluva bruise."

Mark was willing to put up with the nagging, as long as the conversation didn't curve back round to a critique of his boxing. But, as if it simply wasn't going to be his lucky day, Hardcastle re-alighted on that very subject.

"See, when you throw a punch, it moves you back some, right? Not to mention it takes some of the edge off the other guy's forward speed. If ya just stand there and take it—"

"I get it, Judge," Mark cut him off a little sharply. "And I don't think that's what I did, but since I can't remember that part, this isn't going to be much of an argument."

"Well," Hardcastle muttered, "ya did; you pulled it. I was standing right there."

"Okay, so, maybe." McCormick said, almost as quietly. His neck felt tight and sore. The back of his head was starting to throb. He thought giving in might be the best way out of it right then.

"So, _why_?" the judge persisted. "You don't pull your punches under the hoop, do ya?"

"No." Mark knew the question was metaphorical. Their games stayed just this side of fisticuffs.

"So, why'd ya do it in the ring?"

Despite feeling fair-to-middling crappy, and not at all sure what the answer was, Mark thought it was an interesting question. He sat there; eyes closed, head balanced gingerly back against the seat, and pondered it. There was an inkling.

"Maybe," he finally said, "maybe it's one of those primitive survival instincts." It had come out very serious, maybe even solemn. The silence that followed it forced him to open his eyes.

The judge was giving him a look of utter disbelief. "What kind of survival instinct is it to stand there and take a punch without hitting back?"

Mark started to shake his head, thought better of it, and then resorted to a shrug. That didn't feel too good, either. What the hell ever _had_ made him think he had to pull his punch with this man, he could not begin to fathom, not on a conscious level, at any rate.

But he thought his subconscious must have been right up under the surface, while he was laying there in the ring, and it was still being very informative.

"_Never_ hit your parole officer," he said flatly.

Hardcastle's disbelief seemed to be solidifying. "Then why the hell'd you step into the ring with me?"

Mark squinted up at the roof of the truck. "I told you, it must be a primitive instinct. I didn't even know it was there. You gotta admit, most of the time it makes a lot of sense—"

"It was a _boxing_ ring," Hardcastle said insistently.

"—and if I hadn't honed it to an art, Dalem would've gotten a real close look at the floor of his office, and I would have been back in Quentin five months ago. That man liked pushing people who couldn't push back."

Hardcastle was frowning. "That's what it looked like to you?"

"Come on judge. You know what they say--power corrupts. And there's nothing quite as absolute as the power a parole officer has over a parolee. There's more rules than the damn income tax code. But rule number one has _got_ to be 'Never hit back.'"

"Okay," Hardcastle grudged, "maybe number two. But rule number one is you don't have to stand there and take it."

McCormick shook his head, gently and ruefully. "That one is nowhere in the California penal code. And I don't think a parolee is allowed to invoke the Marquess of Queensbury rules."

"No, it's English common law," Hardcastle nodded sharply. "Self-defense. And, anyway, it shouldn't ever come to that. Parole officers operate under a whole bunch of rules themselves."

McCormick took another peek to the side, then closed his eyes again. "You really believe that, huh?" He tried not to make it too challenging.

"Yeah, because it's _true_."

There was something in the man's tone of voice that made McCormick pry his eyes open and stare. Hardcastle had a fixed expression on his face.

It was pretty convincing, that look, not quite enough to make Mark believe in the system, but enough to make him believe that Hardcastle did. And if he'd learned anything, in his six weeks at Gull's Way, it was that the judge acted on his beliefs.

"Okay," he said it quietly, but he was smiling, "I won't pull my punches anymore. I promise."

"Okay," Hardcastle echoed with a huff. "And you gotta keep your left up a little more. That's important, too."


End file.
